


Baked In The A.M.

by winterpillowtalk



Series: One Direction vs. Boring Jobs [5]
Category: One Direction (Band), The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Humor, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7896910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterpillowtalk/pseuds/winterpillowtalk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry works in a bakery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baked In The A.M.

To say Harry was nervous was an understatement. He hadn’t slept in what felt like days, but somehow he’d managed to drag himself out of his house and down to his local bakery. It was his first day on the job – his dream job. Harry had always wanted to be a baker ever since he saw Paul Hollywood on the cover of _Paul Hollywood’s British Baking_. There was just something about the way the older man threw the flour that captivated Harry in a way which he didn’t think was possible.

He arrived at the bakery half an hour later than he anticipated. He’d got lost five times on the short walk there, only confusing himself more and more. Twenty minutes into his aimless stroll, he started to wonder if he would ever arrive. He’d even started to wish he’d written a will before starting his traitorous trek down a few streets. However, when he started saying The Lord’s Prayer in his mind, accepting his soon-to-be death, the small sign of Midnight Bakery’s came into view.

Harry almost cried with joy.

Pushing the door open a little, he peered inside, checking to see if there were any angry-looking old people standing around a fire pit holding voodoo dolls with his face on them, maybe with a couple of cloaked figures in the background for good measure. When he was only met with a typical looking cafe area with an arrangement of tables and chairs spread throughout the room, he stepped inside cautiously.

“Hello?” he called out, gazing around the deserted bakery. When no one replied, he started to doubt that he’d come to the right place. Knowing his luck, he’d probably walked into the world’s first cursed bakery and would die a horrible cake-related death within the next month. The thought made Harry’s heart rate increase; he didn’t want to die a baked good. If anything, he would want to die as a French pastry – they were a lot classier, and rumour had it that they were one of Paul’s favourite things. He wanted to meet his demise as something Paul loved, even if he couldn’t experience the love he craved.

Harry sighed, turning to exit the bakery. Just as he reached the door, he heard someone shout something. “Tyd yma!” the person yelled from behind the register. Harry, who didn’t know what the old woman was saying, stared at her with a worried expression. Why was she screaming at him in a weird language – was it even real? He didn’t know. When Harry didn’t move, the old woman shouted the same phrase again, tapping the countertop next to her. Guessing she wanted him over there, he took a couple of slow steps forwards. “Yma,” she snapped.

“Hello...?” Harry repeated, but this time he was scared. No, more than scared. Harry was terrified, even though he put on his best smile. “My name’s Harry Styles, I’m the new baker here.”

“Iawn,” the woman said, nodding a little. She brought a list out of nowhere and scanned down the sheet of paper. Harry looked over a little, trying to see what was on it. He wanted to know what was going to happen if he was going to be a human sacrifice. If he had a choice, he would have liked to be killed for the good of his God: Paul Hollywood. Or maybe for cats. He liked cats. However, when he saw the paper, it was almost blank with one name at the very top. It was his name. Confused to why the woman was studying it with such an intense gaze, he stepped back a little. Maybe he didn’t want to work here at all. When he saw the job opening in the local news paper, he didn’t foresee ancient women speaking in an unknown language who couldn’t read.

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Harry cleared his throat. “My name’s at the top. It’s, well, the only name on there, actually.” He let out an uneasy laugh, trying to break some of the tension in the air. The woman nodded again, pointing at the letters.

“Harri?” she asked. Harry narrowed his eyes, it almost sounded like his name but something wasn’t right about it. He guessed it was her accent ruining his name, so he gave her an affirmative smile. “Tyd hefo fi,” the women said. Harry had no idea what she was going on about, but followed when she walked to the back.

The room they entered must have been the kitchens. There were two large ovens in a line across the back wall, a few work surfaces and something that looked like a medieval torture device. Harry shuddered, making a mental note never to touch it because he valued his limbs and digits a lot – he didn’t know what he’d do without them. How would he flick through his favourite books _Paul Hollywood’s Bread_ and _Paul Hollywood’s Pies & Puds_? Harry dreaded to think about it. 

The woman had started to speak in the language Harry had started to believe was Elvish from _Lord of the Rings_. As usual, Harry nodded along, trying to work out what she meant. But it was impossible. He listened to the endless amount of made up words, and sounds he didn’t think could be created by a human until she was quite again. He wished someone else was here, either to translate or save him from the lady who looked like she was plotting a massacre on a village in Hampshire.

After a lifetime went by in silence, Harry scuffed his feel on the tiled floor. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, keeping his voice as steady as possible.

“Shhh, plant bach,” the woman said, glaring at him. If looks could kill, Harry was certain he would have been dead on the floor. He nodded without a word, and went back to standing around the kitchen. It wasn’t a bad place, but a little more dated that he was expecting. Along with the torture device, there were a few pots which looked as if they belonged with the woman who was with him: the 1800s. From where he was standing, he could see the rust and old food – or at least what he hoped was food, but the more time he spent in the bakery, the more he started to question the practices that went on behind closed doors.

He heard a creaky door open somewhere within the building. Fear flooded Harry’s veins, his mind quickly thinking up endless numbers of different scenarios that could happen in the next few minutes. The person in the bakery was probably another old woman, who also spoke the gibberish the one next to him was spilling out. They’d force him through the machine which seemed to have been in retirement since the French Revolution, and then do god knows what to his crushed remains.

“Delyth, has Harry arrived yet?” someone called from behind the door; something was strangely familiar of the mysterious person’s voice.

“Harri,” the woman – Delyth – corrected the other person.

“Actually, it is Harry. Harry with a Y,” Harry said, looking down at his dust covered shoes. Delyth only made a huffing noise, pushing some of her minimal grey hair away from her face. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to get Satan-In-Human-Form to listen to him, never mind to pronounce his name correctly. Harry gave the woman one last deathly glare before turning towards where the new voice was coming from.

On the other side of the room, another door swung open. Surprised by the sudden gust of wind, Harry jumped backwards an inch or two. He swore that door wasn’t there when he scanned the kitchen, unless he had missed it during his thorough search for possible escape routes.

Harry squinted against the harsh light coming from the open door, which probably opened out onto some kind of loading dock or delivery place. He could make out a silhouette leaning against the doorframe, looking at the both of them in the room. Harry, who was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable with the situation, cleared his throat in a vain attempt to break the silence.

The silence continued.

Harry considered having a staring completion with Delyth.

The person from the doorway stepped into the room, making them clearer for Harry to see. At first, he didn’t believe it – he _couldn’t_ believe it. From the blinding sunlight came Paul Hollywood. Harry felt his knees go weak and his soul leaving his body simultaneously. He was going to die on the sport, right next to the creepy woman and the torture machine. It wasn’t how he thought he was going to spend his last few seconds, but then again he didn’t expect Paul John Hollywood, English baker and celebrity chef, best known for being a judge on The Great British Bake off to grace Harry with his presence.

Harry gasped, reaching out for something to break his fall. “Paul,” he managed to spit out. “Sir- King- Lord.” Paul laughed at him as he tried to string together a comprehensible sentence.

“It’s Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywood III to you,” Paul said, casting his gaze down onto Harry, who was now crumpled onto the cold floor, breathing heavily to try and regain his composure. “Now that you have finally made it, I want you to start cleaning the floors, they’re filthy.”

Harry jumped up from the floor, which were disgusting. He was sure he landed on some kind of decomposing animal when he fell but didn’t want to mention it, especially not in front of the Baron of Baking. He brushed the unknown dirt from his jeans, hoping that it wouldn’t make him ill. He managed to make half a second of eye contact with the King of Confectionaries, making him blush profusely. He felt Paul’s blue eyes burn into his soul, exactly like they did on the TV on in pictures, but it actually hurt Harry this time – almost as if his skin was smouldering.

It turned out that Harry was literally on fire.

Luckily, Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywood III saved him by throwing a bucket of water over him. Harry spluttered, choking on years old water with a mix of chemicals and dead bugs in it. However, diseases aside, Paul Hollywood had rescued him from a fiery death. He’d always dreamed about his Knight in Shining Tinfoil saving him from his demise. He couldn’t think of a more perfect situation than he was in now: he was in Paul’s bakery and the man himself had stopped him from turning into ashes. It was what his wildest fantasies were made of.

Maybe he was dead, and this was heaven. He didn’t want to question the weird woman in the corner, muttering to herself in the language that Harry had decided to name Mumbles From Another World. But that didn’t matter. His heaven had Paul in it, that’s all he wanted in life – and also the afterlife.

“Am I dead?” Harry asked, an overwhelming feeling taking hold of his body.

“No, unfortunately not,” Paul said, narrowing his eyes at Harry. Harry loved it Paul spoke to him; his kind words brought joy to his life. No one could beat Paul in making Harry feel comfortable. He was certain that if the older man started reading out satanic chants as he punched Harry to the ground, Harry would be more than grateful. The mere thought of coming anywhere in punching distance of his one true idol made him grin to himself. “You aren’t being paid to smile,” Paul snapped in his angelic voice.

Harry nodded, covering his mouth with his hand in a vain attempt to conceal the grin that was still plastered across his face. To his luck, it seemed like Paul didn’t notice that he was still doing the Unplayable Smile as he’d turned to face Delyth. Harry could pick up a couple of words – if they could be called that. It was clear that the two people in this bakery could speak in the tongue Harry which couldn’t make sense of – maybe he’d have to try and pick it up to be in Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywood III’s good books.

Their brief discussion came to an end when Paul angrily shouted a mix of vowels and hissing sounds. The women looked offended, but didn’t say anything back to him – she was probably too scared of the man in front of her. Harry knew that if his idol yelled at him like that, he’d probably cry – or be sick, whichever came first. Paul shooed Delyth away into another room, muttering to himself as he approached Harry again.

Paul stood in front of Harry, stared down at him with a distinct look of revulsion on his face. “Clean,” was all he said, pointing just behind Harry to a pile of decades old cleaning equipment. Harry turned his head to see them, most looked like they hadn’t been used since The Creation of Adam was finished. The chemicals within the vast number of plastics bottles would probably combust when they finally came in contact with oxygen, but he was willing to take the risk of a chemically death to appease Paul’s intense fury.

Again, Harry nodded without a word. When Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywood III was content with his response, he turned around in a gust of wind and bats – a bit like a Sim™ crossed with a vampire. Harry screamed in horror, but was impressed nonetheless.

He slowly walked to the cleaning appliances, eyeing them up. He didn’t know how many were safe to use in a kitchen; he was sure the vast majority of them had been banned in seven different countries in the 1980s. But it wasn’t his place to say tell Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywood III, he’d probably spent a lot of money in sourcing the bleach which could wash away nuclear waste. Harry kneeled down in front of the bottles and brushes, reading a couple of the labels to try and deduce which were the least life threatening.

Harry picked two at random, deciding that potential blindness was better than internal damage and blood pouring from the ears if someone ingested it. He collected a handful of old holey cloths and a mouldy sponge on his way to the dirtiest area of the floor. He was determined to make the room hygienic enough to lessen the chance of someone getting cholera from the taps.

***

It was nearing the end of the day when Harry finished cleaning one square centimetre of the floor. He stood back, his hands on his hips, impressed with his work. He could see the off-yellow colour of the tiles, but he was sure he could make them their original shade of pink by the 2020 Olympics if he tried hard enough.

The sound of a tornado and screeching of cats came from behind the door. Harry straightened his shirt and brushed his hair out of his face, he wanted to look respectable when Paul entered the room again. Just as he’d finished preparing himself, the older man barged through the door, making some of the pans on the wall shake. “You,” he said in a menacing voice, pointing at Harry.

“Me,” Harry replied, doing jazz hands to emphasise that he was in fact himself.

Paul didn’t stop walking until he was in Harry’s personal space. This was Harry’s dream; he didn’t think it would ever come true. He’d always wondered what it was like to be so close to the love of his life, and what he smelled like. Harry caught the scent of death and decay, as well as the strong smell of bread flour.

It was perfect.

He wished he could have the smell turned into a cologne to wear forever and ever. All he’d have to do is harvest the scent and bottle it. It was pretty simple; all he needed to get were a few bottles and a syringe. Who wouldn’t want to have an identical smell as award-winning Inventor of Cakes and Scones Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywood III’s? No one.

“Stop smiling. I’ve already told you once,” Paul said, still too close to Harry. Paul lowered his voice, making it nearly impossible for Harry to pick up all of the words, despite their close proximity. “Go to the back and open the storage room. It’s hidden, the password is L4RRY. When you open it, you need to get two boxes labelled ‘Bezza’ and ‘Diana’. Bring them back in here and then you’re free to go.”

Harry didn’t question the names of the boxes nor their indented purpose. Paul took a step back, giving Harry room to walk away. Harry felt Paul watching him as he left, making him blush and forget how to walk a little.  The storage room was easy to find, much to Harry’s surprise. The whole bakery was a mastery to him, he was sure it couldn’t be real.

He managed to find the door. It wasn’t anything life changing, it just looked like a conventional door with a keypad on it to enter the code. He typed in ‘L4RRY’ slowly, taking his time to gazing around anther part of the bakery he didn’t know existed. When he put in the last letter, he heard a faint clicking sound of the lock unlocking. Pushing the door open, he was greeted by a large space with shelves lining the walls. It was mainly empty, with only a handful of boxes and tubs on a select number of shelves and across the linoleum flooring. He stepped in, making sure that the door didn’t close behind him – the last thing he wanted was to be stuck in a windowless room for hours on end.

The boxes Paul wanted were on the shelf on the far wall. Harry rushed through the room, not wanting to be in here longer than he had to. There was something about the eerie silence and stillness that didn’t sit right with him. The boxes were a lot heavier and larger than he anticipated. He managed to stack them on top of each other so he didn’t have to make two trips, he didn’t think he was brave enough to come back. Groaning a little, he started to make his way towards the door.

However, through the silence, he heard a noise which sounded oddly like a cry for help. Harry stopped in his tracks, waiting for the noise to come again. When he didn’t hear anything else, he took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves. “Hello?” he called out into the seemingly lifeless area. Just as he thought his overactive imagination had made up the sound, the noise happened again.

Carefully, Harry put the two boxes onto the floor. He scanned the room, looking for something – or someone – in the room with him. Maybe it was Paul or Delyth messing with him. Why would there be someone else in there... unless it was a haunted storage room explaining why Paul didn’t want to retrieve the boxes.

“Okay,” Harry said to himself. “Is someone’s here, make another noise.” He’d seen it happen on _Most Haunted_ , but they were in a haunted house and not a dodgy storage area. Then again, maybe someone had been trapped in the room and perished there, so they disturbed whoever entered. Maybe he should contact Derek Acorah to do it professionally and remove the trouble spirit from the dingy area.

“Help,” came a feeble voice. Harry jumped, not expecting someone to actually reply to him. The voice didn’t seem like Paul’s or Delyth’s, it seemed to be from a younger person.

Harry was freaked out, but didn’t want to let the ghost know that he was scared. Ghosts fed on fear; he didn’t want to be the ghost’s next meal. Harry didn’t class himself as anything taste, he was thin and bony – definitely not a good for anyone, alive or in spirit.

He tried to think back to what they’d said on Most Haunted. If he was going to die, he didn’t want to go without a fight. “What do you want from me, Holy Spirit? Do you want to be laid to rest anywhere? To pass on a message to your bereaved loved ones?” Harry tried his best to keep his voice steady by breathing heavily through his nose. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, he didn’t want to ghost to know how close to a panic attack he was.

There was a long pause between Harry finishing his speech and the spirit replying. “What?” the ghost asked, sounding bemused. “I’m not a ghost.”

Harry’s legs went weak. He wasn’t dealing with a ghost; he was trying to barging with an invisible zombie! He wished he’d been bothered to watch The Walking Dead, he was sure that he would have been able to save himself from it. He silently scolded himself for being too dedicated to watching Paul’s baking shows as he looking through Tumblr and Google for cute pictures of Paul to Photoshop himself in.

“You’re a zombie,” Harry said, sounding almost defeated. There was no way he was going to kill the undead, especially if they were invisible. As he searched the room again, looking for any sign or something being moved or knocked off a shelf. When he didn’t notice anything, he backed up into a wall and sank to the floor. If his back was covered, they couldn’t come up behind him and kill him that way. Maybe the zombie didn’t have to be invisible all the time and he could catch a glimpse of him before he was turned into a zombie, too.

Harry swore he heard the Zombie-Ghost laugh. “A zombie?” the voice asked. “No, I’m just in one of these boxes. I’ve been here for a week; you need to help me get out of here.”

The news shocked Harry. Someone was trapped in the boxes? They were just about big enough for a small child to fit in, maybe an adult with a squeeze. “Uh,” Harry said, hesitating a little. It could have been a trap to see if he’d look through some of Paul’s mysterious supplies and ingredients. “Keep on talking and then I’ll get you out then,” Harry said, hoping it was a reasonable request. The person in the box kept on chatting calmly, but Harry didn’t listen. Too much was going on for him to make sense of the situation. This was meant to be his first day in his dream job, not a day of listening to an old woman mutter to herself in a weird language, Paul being a vampire or something who wanted to be referred to as Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywood III even though Harry knew there hadn’t been another two Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywoods before the one he idolised. And then there was this: someone being trapped in a box in the bakery’s storage room.

All of that aside, he still loved Paul, regardless of all his unique quirks and business adventures.

The person’s talking became louder as Harry approached the back corner of the room. When he looked left, he saw one plastic box shoved to the side. It looked a little larger than the others, but not by much. He crouched down beside it. “Are you in here?” he asked to box.

“Obviously,” the boy replied, not sounding best pleased. “Get me out of here.”

Harry obeyed. With shaking hands, he undid the lock that held it closed, and lifted the lid off. He closed his eyes, not wanting to know the horrors which could have been within the unassuming box. In his mind, he expected to see something gory, like someone crying covered in their own blood. Or a person who was merely skin and bones.

He heard the sound of someone’s feet hitting the solid floor, quickly followed by the person letting out a relived groan. “Why are your eyes closed?” the boy asked, presumably looking down at Harry. Harry opened one eyes, looking up at him. To Harry’s surprise, the boy didn’t look too bad – nothing like he’d imagined. He seemed to be fine, with only minor cuts on his arms, a black eye and a bruised lip.

“Well,” the boy said, standing awkwardly. “Thanks?” he offered. He reached for Harry’s hand, gracelessly pulling him up from the floor. Curiosity was killing Harry; he wanted to know why the boy was in the box and why he looked like he’d been in a fight. As well as his name, of course.

“You’re welcome,” Harry replied, not too sure where to start asking all the questions which were on his mind. Instead, he went back to the strangely named boxes Paul needed. He hoped that the Mayor Lord Sir hadn’t noticed his unusually long absence. “I have to take these boxes back to Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywood III now,” he said, picking the packages up and heading to the door. He wasn’t sure what to do with the boy in the room now, but he had a sick feeling that he shouldn’t mention the new person to either of his work colleagues.

“Wait,” the person called out. Harry sighed a little, turning around to face him again. When he shrugged his shoulders, the boy gave him a small smile. “I’m Niall,” he said, unknowingly ticking off one of Harry’s questions from his list. “I’m from _space_.”

“Harry,” he said, ignoring the new information about the boy being from outer space. Harry guessed that he was making it up to catch his attention, but he wasn’t fooling for that one. “I really have to go.” He quickly walked out of the room before Niall could call him back, or for his interest to get the better of him.

***

Harry ran into the kitchens, boxes held out in front of him. He didn’t want to disappoint Mayor Lord Sir Paul J. Hollywood III; he still needed to be in his good books. When he reached one of the work surfaces, he set the boxes down and waiting for Paul to re-enter the room.

Paul must have had some kind of mind-reading ability, because the second Harry started to wonder if the man would ever show up again, the familiar sound of screaming followed by a breeze came from outside the door. “Have you got what I asked for?” he asked, not bothering to greet Harry or thank him from doing his dirty work. Harry didn’t care, he’d jump into a volcano is Paul even hinted at him doing so.

He loved Paul too much.

“I did,” he said, gesturing to the boxes. He let out a nervous laugh. “You’d never believe me, but there’s a boy in the storage room, he says he’s from space.” Harry laughed some more, but quickly stopped when Paul didn’t. He didn’t look impressed; in fact he looked like he could kill Harry on the spot. Harry gulped. “He was trapped in a box, so I got him out.”

Harry knew something was wrong when Paul started to spit blood and Delyth entered the room again, chanting something in the language Harry couldn’t understand. Still, he didn’t move. He adored Paul too much to be scared by his weird tendencies to copy the devil – Harry thought it was weirdly endearing that he showed every side of himself to someone he’d only known a day. It showed how closed they were, Harry told himself. He watched as Paul flung open the box labelled ‘Bezza’. Harry went onto his tiptoes to see what was hidden in the mystery boxes. There was some red goo and something that resembled a human limb.

“That’s really realistic fondant modelling,” Harry complemented Paul. “How did you get the red to look so blood-like?” No one replied to him, but Harry smiled along anyway.

“You need to go,” Paul said, his voice sounding rougher than it was a minute ago. Harry wondered if he was coming down with a cold – he hoped he didn’t get it, working around food with a cough wasn’t hygienic at all.

Harry checked his watch and gasped. It was almost 6PM; he was going to be late getting home. He quickly said goodbye to his new work colleagues and ran out of the room. He deliberately went past the storage room to check whether Niall had left. He peeked around the door, ensuring that no one was inside when he brought the door closed again. He heard the lock click back into place, keeping any unwanted visitors out.

He walked around for a while longer, making sure that everything was back to where it was before. When he was finally satisfied, he went out through the rear door. It was dark out; Harry’s mum wasn’t going to be pleased when he finally stumbled into his house two hours later than he told her.

 ***

Harry was up early the following day, more excited than ever to return to his job. He’d been awake for half an hour reading through _The Weekend Baker_ for the ninth time that month. He loved that recipe book; it was nice to see how to make different types of bread – not to mention that it had some of Paul all-time favourites listed in the pages, too.

“Harry, are you up?” his mother called from the other side of the door, waiting patiently outside.

“I am,” Harry replied, putting the book to one side. His mum opened the door, letting herself inside his bedroom. “I have bad news for you,” she said, casting her gaze down to focus on the carpeted floor.

“What?” he asked. He thought back through his immediate family and wondered which one had decided to die on his second day of his dream job. He didn’t want to take a day off so soon, but he’d seem heartless if he went in. He’d have to fake mourning to make his remaining family feel better about him.

“The bakery has been shut down by MI5,” she said with a sigh.

Harry was shocked. He didn’t want to believe it. How did MI5 shut down a small bakery? It wasn’t as if there was anything wrong with it, as long as they ignored a couple of cleanliness issues – but he was working on that! He’d managed to do the centimetre square patch, and was just about to work on the other bits.

Harry was distraught.

“Oh, and the Pope.”

“The Pope?!” Harry shouted. “Why did the Pope get involved?”

Harry’s mum sat on the bottom of his bed. She looked at him, pity in her eyes. “Hazza, Paul was the antichrist; they were making their cakes out of well-loved celebrity bakers and were keeping a weird space boy in their pantry. They couldn’t keep it open.” He put a hand on Harry’s leg, trying to comfort him. “I knew how much you loved Paul, but the real Paul wasn’t the person you saw on TV.”

“He _was_ ,” Harry said, defensively. He, the biggest Paul John Hollywood stan, knew Paul when he saw him. That was the real Paul, not some made up being.

Harry’s mum tried to reason with him, but nothing got through to him. They were all lying, the real Paul was nice. He made cakes for dying ants – he was that kind of guy. He wasn’t the antichrist, nor were they keeping a kid hostage in one of their many rooms. He was certain that the body parts of well-loved bakers were only the very realistic models made of icing and other non-human materials. Harry couldn’t believe how stupid MI5 were.

No matter what, he stood by the love of his life. He wouldn’t let them take Paul away from him. He pushed his duvet off him and marched to the door, ignoring his mother’s cries for him to stop.

He was going to break Paul Hollywood out of prison and save the baking world once and for all.


End file.
